


The Scar

by Sabishiioni



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, spoilers for 1x10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 00:36:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1708466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabishiioni/pseuds/Sabishiioni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hated that scar...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scar

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers.  
> Warnings:  
> Follow Me:[Tumblr](http://sabishiioni.tumblr.com/)  
> Mindless Babble: First foray in this fandom so I thought I would make it short and sweet.

He hated that scar. 

Athos silently cursed the sudden downpour that prevented their return to Paris, just as he cursed the fact that Porthos had been injured while on their mission and Aramis needed to stay with him. This meant that he and d'Artagnan would have to share the second room. At least the inn was not expensive and their youngest member seemed delighted with the clean bedding that came with the room.

He stilled his movements, watching as d'Artagnan peeled off his soaked shirt, revealing the ugly scar. It was pink and white against the olive skin, still not completely healed. The shape of it left no doubt what had caused the original injury. 

Or who.

D'Artagnan seemed to feel the weight of the older man’s eyes on him. He turned with an easy smile on his lips and a glimmer of mischief in his dark eyes. Tilting his head, he peered into his friends face. 

“You know, if you keep staring at me like that, I might get the wrong idea about why.”

Athos turned away, anger coloring his cheeks. “I was merely noting that your wound has not yet fully healed.”

D’Artagnan glanced down at his marred rib cage. “It’s almost there.”

“It will leave a scar…”

“I don’t mind.” The young man smirked. “I mean, have you seen Aramis lately? Or Porthos?”

Athos finished stripping off his wet clothes, leaving only his undergarments. The sudden silence caused him to glance over his shoulder. D’Artagnan’s eyes were wide as he stared at the older man's bared back. He suddenly became aware of the multitude of old scars that were collected there.

“Or yourself…”

“The marks on my body are not the same as the one you now bare. They were given to me by my enemies.”

“Whereas mine was given to me by a trusted friend.”

Though there was no condemnation in the youthful voice, Athos still swallowed the strangled sound that threatened to emerge from his throat. He nearly flinched when a gentle hand was laid on his shoulder to turn him around. No anger, nor rebuke, showed in man’s expression, which spoke volumes as d’Artagnan consistently wore his heart on his sleeve.

“Though you may not believe me, I am proud of the mark you gave me.” Clearly seeing the disbelief written across the man’s scruff covered face, he smiled as he continued. “It serves as a reminder of the trust you put in me. It was my first wound as a Musketeer and it was gifted to me by the greatest Musketeer of all. Not many can say that.”

Athos’ gaze did not waiver. “You consider me the greatest? Then you still have much to learn.”

D’Artagnan shrugged as if he didn’t care and looked away. “Perhaps, but that does not change the way I feel about this.” He lightly touched the still healing flesh. “I will always carry it with pride.”

A small smile flitted across Athos’ lips as he reached forward, letting his fingertips ghost over the knitting flesh. He bit the inside of his lip as the body under his fingers gave a violent shiver. 

“We should get you into bed before you catch your death from the cold.”

“While I doubt the cold in here will kill me, it is not to blame.” D’Artagnan peered up through thick lashes as pink spread across his cheeks. 

It was Athos’ turn to cock his head to the side. “And what of Madam Bonacieux?”

At the name, d’Artagnan turned his eyes to the floor. “She is lost to me…if she was ever mine to begin with.”

A single, silent nod. Athos took the others hand in his, leading the man to the bed. Despite what he said, d’Artagnan was cold- he could feel it through their connected hands. However, there was more than one way to warm a person.

Maybe that scar wasn’t so bad after all.


End file.
